The speaker put an emphasis on the last word, and eyed Miss Durant in a way that led her to hastily withdraw her fingers, and turn away from his unconcealed admiration. It was to find the keen eyes of the urchin observing them with the closest attention; and as she realised it, she coloured, half in embarrassment and half in irritation. “How is your leg?” she asked, in an attempt to divert the boy’s attention and to conceal her own feeling. “Say. Did youse know dey done it up in plaster, so dat it’s stiff as a bat?” responded the youngster, eagerly. “Wish de udder kids could see it, for dey’ll never believe it w’en Ise tells ’em. I’ll show it to youse if youse want?” he offered, in his joy over the novelty. “I saw it put on,” said Constance. “Don’t you remember?” “Why, cert! Ise remembers now dat—” A sudden change came over the boy’s face. “Wheer’s dem cloes youse promised me?” he demanded. “Oh, I entirely forgot—” “Ah, forgit youse mudder! Youse a peach, oin’t youse?” contemptuously broke in the child. Miss Durant and Dr. Armstrong both burst out laughing. “Youse t’ink youse a smarty, but Ise know’d de hull time it wuz only a big bluff dat youse wuz tryin’ to play on me, an’ it didn’t go wid me, nah!” went on the youngster, in an aggrieved tone. “Isn’t he perfectly incorrigible?” sighed Constance. “Ise oin’t,” denied the boy, indignantly. “Deyse only had me up onct.” With the question the girl had turned to Dr. Armstrong; then, finding his eyes still intently studying her, she once more gave her attention to the waif. “Really, I did forget them,” she asserted. “You shall have a new suit long before you need it.” “Cert’in dat oin’t no fake extry youse shoutin’?” “Truly. How old are you?” “Wotcher want to know for?” suspiciously asked the boy. “So I can buy a suit for that age.” “Dat goes. Ise ate.” “And what’s your name?” “Swot.” “What?” exclaimed the girl. “Nah. Swot,” he corrected. “How do you spell it?” “Dun’no’. Dat’s wot de newsies calls me, ’cause of wot Ise says to de preacher man.” “And what was that?” “It wuz one of dem religious mugs wot comes Sunday to de Mulberry Park, see, an’ dat day he wuz gassin’ to us kids ’bout lettin’ a guy as had hit youse onct doin’ it ag’in; an’ w’en he’d pumped hisself empty, he says to me, says he, ‘If a bad boy fetched youse a lick on youse cheek, wot would youse do to ’im?’ An’ Ise says, ‘I’d swot ’im in de gob, or punch ’im in de slats,’ says I; an’ so de swipes calls me by dat noime. Honest, now, oin’t dat kinder talk jus’ sickenin’?” “But you must have another name,” suggested Miss Durant, declining to commit herself on that question. “Sure.” “And what is that?” “McGarrigle.” “And have you no father or mother?” “Nah.” “Or brothers or sisters?” “Nah. Ise oin’t got nuttin’.” “Where do you live?” “Ah, rubber!” disgustedly remarked Swot. “Say, dis oin’t no police court, see?”